


No Lifeguard on Duty

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Series: Dry Drowning [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate POV, Alternate Point of View, Bruce is "dead", Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Batman, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Red Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 10:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18444857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: The Cave still stank slightly of diesel from the exhaust Jason’s motorbike, the musky scent winding down into Tim’s lungs as he sucked in a deep breath. He was good at doing things he didn’t want to do, well-practiced at locking his spine and squaring his shoulders to face the inevitable. This time would be no different.Dry Drowning, from Tim's point of view.





	No Lifeguard on Duty

**Author's Note:**

> In celebration of my one-year fic-writing anniversary, I allowed followers on Tumblr to request an off-page fic snippet—a different POV of one of the scenes, a peek at what happened after, etc., of any of my finished fics.
> 
> This is one of those.
> 
> https://lurkinglurkerwholurks.tumblr.com/post/184105188732/new-ask-meme-starting-here-because-it-popped-into

He should say... something.

Tim sat at the computer, finger tapping anxiously against the desk. The words felt heavy on his tongue, clumping and coagulating like tar or blood. Tim was always on the quieter side, once he’d given up on his parents listening, but words had been easier around Dick. His easygoing ways had been a lubricant for Tim and Bruce both, like dish soap loosening the muck and washing it clean. Dick knew how to make a person feel listened to, feel heard, feel important.

Then Damian had arrived. Bruce had died. Dick had taken Robin. And Tim’s words had dried up.

It wasn’t hurt or betrayal that made his mouth feel full and clotted tonight, though. It was guilt.

The Cave still stank slightly of diesel from the exhaust Jason’s motorbike, the musky scent winding down into Tim’s lungs as he sucked in a deep breath. He was good at doing things he didn’t want to do, well-practiced at locking his spine and squaring his shoulders to face the inevitable. This time would be no different.

Tim turned in the chair and looked across the Cave. Dick was where Tim had left him after Jason’s retreat into the night. Still half-armored in the suit, the new Batman sat by the cot, forearms braced against the mattress and one hand running rhythmically through Damian’s hair, fingers combing in time with the hiss of the oxygen mask.

The demon brat looked small. He _was_  small, but it was easy to overlook when he was flanked by the looming shadow of his hatred and rage. But here on the medical cot, tucked under a thin cotton blanket, face half-swallowed by the oxygen mask, Damian looked like a regular little kid.

Tim swallowed and forced his joints to bend, his body to rise, his legs to swing. He cross the Cave and stood behind Dick’s chair, waiting to be acknowledged. No acknowledgement came. Tim cleared his throat.

“Dick?”

Dick lifted his head and turned just enough that Tim could see his tired, red-rimmed eyes. It was enough, a chisel to scrape some of the detritus off his tongue.

“I’m... I’m sorry for not realizing... I should have noticed. That something was wrong.”

He’d noticed _something_. Damian’s mood had been worse than normal all night, like a blazing forest fire of spite instead of the usual summer bonfire. And the coughing had been hard to miss–Dick had even made Damian stay back in the Cave for it—but Tim had assumed...

Well, he hadn’t given Damian much thought at all, actually, other than to be pissed with being tagged as the brat’s babysitter. Hadn’t noticed much of anything until Jason had given a shout that had made Tim’s hair stand on end. He hated yelling and especially hated Jason yelling, since Jason yelling was usually accompanied by blood and pain. But Jason hadn’t been shouting in anger.

 _Catch the kid catchthekidcatchthekidcatchthekid_! he’d yelled, cutting through Tim’s argument with Dick like a panicked parent spying a hand above a glowing stove burner. Or maybe the parent was Tim, since Tim had been the one to turn and catch a collapsing Damian.

The kid had already been halfway to the ground when Tim’s arms wrapped around him, sparing his head a blow against the cold concrete floor. Tim’s stomach had barely had time to plummet before both Dick and Jason had been there, swinging Damian away to a medical cot.

But there had been time for Tim to notice Damian’s cheeks (grey), lips (blue), and pajamas (Mickey Mouse.) He’d had time to notice what Damian had felt like, a limp marionette with muscly arms and rattling bones. They’d never touched outside of blows before. He hadn’t known the brat could feel soft.

That was why he was apologizing. Tim would have anyways, for the stress he brought Dick, for failing in his task, for letting Damian be hurt. But really, he was apologizing for doing exactly what Dick had accused him of before—for not seeing Damian as a person, a little kid who was too stubborn for his own good.

 _Too much like Bruce_ , Tim admitted begrudgingly.

Dick, at Damian’s bedside, was attempting a wobbly smile. Tim hadn’t seen a real smile on him in too long. His smiles had died with Bruce, it seemed.

“I didn’t notice either,” Dick said. Which wasn’t him saying it wasn’t Tim’s fault, Tim noted. “Thank you. For catching him.”

Tim gave a jerking nod. Before, Dick would have checked to see if he was okay, too. He would have thanked Tim as a courtesy, not out of any real surprise that Tim helped. He would have reached an arm out to him, pulled him in for a hug. But that was before.

A lot of things had died with Bruce.

“He’ll be alright?”

Dick nodded. “I think so. I think we caught it in time.”

Tim's gaze slid back to the bed. Damian looked so much like Bruce, even when he slept. So much it hurt to look at him sometimes.

Tim opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn’t sure. To apologize again? To ask Dick if they would ever be the way they were? To ask if he missed Bruce, too?

Damian stirred under Dick’s hand, pulling the older man’s attention away. To Tim, it felt like stepping from sun to shadow. He shivered and turned back to the computer.


End file.
